Crag stared at the black shadow protecting his adversary, gripping his gun. But he knew there would be nothing to shoot at unless Braun shot first, revealing his position. And Joe was no fool even when he faced a greenhorn from Earth. Crag was at bay here in the concealing shadow, helpless, trapped, and calling for help was out of the question. The radarphone would not carry to the nearest terradome. The catatread! If he could make a dash for the catatread, reach it and throw a light beam into the shadows he could burn the other to a crisp with the large, swivel gun. But then a wave of despondency blacked out his thoughts. It was too far to the vehicle. Even with the lighter gravity of Luna to hold him back, his space suit was heavy and cumbersome, and he could never make it before Joe Braun would throw at least three shots in him. He would be a clay pigeon. Suddenly he realized the hopelessness of his predicament. He could never match flame with Joe Braun. Ron Crag knew he did not have a chance in an open duel with the ruthless killer. "What'sa matter, son, afraid?" came the taunt through his headset. "I guess you know what the penalty is for claim jumping?" Crag snapped. "To say nothing of attempted murder?" "Shore I do," Joe Braun laughed. "A great big posse'll hunt me down and toss me into a bottomless crater. That's what happens to claim jumpers as gets caught. And you'll get a big, fat reward, huh, sonny?" Ron bit back his answer. "But you named one o' the charges wrong, son," chided Joe gently. "You called it _attempted_ murder." He chuckled. "That's one thing ol' Joe Braun ain't ever gonna be guilty of. Whyn't ya come outa that shadder an' get it over with?" * * * * * Crag did not answer. He looked toward the catatread. There was not a single rock or spire between it and him to protect him. The cliffs of the Alps rose sheer and precipitous from the level of the crater floor, and for most of the distance to the vehicle the very base of the cliffs was brightly illuminated in the earthlight. But here and there a black shadow did jut out from the base of the precipice, cast by jagged peaks, eight thousand feet above the tiny basin. Those shadows formed an irregular chain of black splotches over the pumice-covered floor between Crag and the catatread. Crag wasted no time weighing his chances. Blood beat fiercely in his temples as he tensed. He darted out into the earthlight, then retreated back into the same shadow as a livid ribbon of flame streaked by just in front of his visorport. He knew it was excellent shooting for a hand-gun at that range. It would take Joe Braun ten seconds to recharge and readjust the gun, and in that time--